Feral Game
by Syrynn Ebonpaw
Summary: Dylan Jones is in deep trouble. He's been kidnapped by Team Galactic, turned into a Pokemorph, and forced into a conflict that could threaten the very freedoms of the entire world. He'll need all the help he can get to keep evil from taking over...
1. Experience Points the Way

**Chapter One: Experience Points the Way**

A young man, no more than seventeen, lay inside of a wrought-iron cage, with solid bars about a quarter-inch apart lining it. His skin was a slightly pale shade of tan, proving that, while he typically bronzed himself under the sun, his recent incarceration had caused his complexion to fade back toward its natural state. His head was a mess of untamed, crimson locks that looked as though it had been rolled through every sort of dirt imaginable for months without care. He breathed lightly as he slept, and his chest heaved slowly with each passing second. He was a captive in Team Galactic's headquarters, and sleeping was about the only thing that passed time with any reliable speed.

The young prisoner wore a pitch black jumpsuit, one size too small for his five-foot-seven body. He looked as though he was cursing his captors for giving him the tight and itchy clothing, but it was certainly better than being stripped to nakedness. He had a somewhat thin, yet moderately muscled build that required him to wear a large size in clothing. It was fortunate that many of the Galactic employees shared his clothing size, as the prisoner's garb was nothing more than the Galactic uniform painted a pure ebony and sewn together crudely. Obviously, prisoners received nothing more than hand-me-down clothing, and were lucky to even have that.

The cell containing the youth was about six-foot-two in height, and five-four in length. The width measured an even two feet, and comfortably fit the prisoner inside. It wasn't too comfortable, though, as it housed no furniture, or anything else for that matter. Going to sleep meant doing so on the cold, metallic ground, and often left captives in pain, or halted their rest altogether. It was the barest of lives, and the only food given to the prisoners was a small ration of bread once daily, usually around nine in the evening. Water was given with each food ration, and was put in a small bowl that was only allowed to be used for two minutes. It was then taken away until the next night, when the process repeated itself.

The surroundings weren't any more cheerful than the lifestyle. The basement was dimly lit, and smelled of toxic waste and body odor. Not all of the odor was human, and most of it was considerably vile, though most of the prisoners ended up adjusting to it. It was barely possible to see anything inside unless an employee happened to be down there on a matter of business. The grunts usually carried candles, which didn't help matters much, but the higher officials were allotted lanterns and flashlights, which was a considerable aide to a prisoner's sight. Only the highest of the scientists and leaders had the key to the light switch near the stairwell, and seeing one of them in the filth was rarer than seeing a shiny Pokémon.

A faint light flickered on and off in the dark, dank distance, and the youth stirred softly, finally opening his eyes and stretching his arms. His blue eyes blinked as they adjusted to the waking world, and his arms tensed up as he stretched to ease his muscle aches, groaning with each pop he heard.

"Well, well, well... look who's finally up," a voice suddenly spat through the dankness.

"Huh?" the young man asked hazily. "Are you talking to me?"

"Yes, I am," the reply came back. "So, how long have you been here?"

The teenager looked over in the direction of the strange voice. He shrugged his broad shoulders and replied, "About a week, I'd guess." As he shook his head, his untamed red hair fell backward behind his ears. He stared at the iron bars of his cage and put his head in his hands, looking either exhausted, ashamed, or a combination of the two.

"You'll never make it out," the voice said suddenly in a gruff tone. "I've been here for... well, I believe about twenty-one years. I'd wager my last coin that you've been alive for less time than that. Unfortunately, they took all my coins and bills when they threw me in this stuffy old prison trap. I can't remember what I was even doing here when I got captured. I don't remember my true name anymore. This dank hellhole took all that I held dear, including my memories..."

The redhead looked up and nodded. "Legendaries alive... well, I remember my sister Kyra had called me over here to discuss some monetary problems she'd been having. Then the next thing I remember, I woke up in this cage. My name's Dylan... Dylan Jones." He nodded softly and looked at the ceiling of his makeshift cell. "Speaking of money, you'd win that wager you made. I'm only sixteen years old." He chuckled softly and showed a half-smile. His teeth were barely faded, with a near-perfect alignment. Only the space between his two front teeth seemed to be off.

"Dylan Jones..." The voice was silent for a minute as its owner seemed to be pondering. "You can call me Shade," it finally replied, adding a deep groan in the end. "That's what the guards and scientists seem to call me, at least. I don't know why you're here, but I hope you'll tough out your incarceration. In a cell with nothing to do, I'm surprised I never fell over dead from the pure boredom."

"Shade..." Dylan uttered suddenly.

"Yes?" came the reply.

"Since when did Team Galactic have such an elaborate prison scheme?"

"Hmm... Dylan, I'm not one hundred percent sure," Shade answered hesitantly. "I believe this is an old, underground facility of theirs. Only the high-ranking officials and inmates will ever find out about the history of the dungeon that we're entombed in. When Team Galactic was founded forty years ago, they originally built this place to store highly dangerous experiments and incurably wild Pokémon.

"Ten years later," Shade went on, "most of this large room was destroyed in a fire caused by one of the loosened experiments. History has forgotten who he was before Galactic got their mitts on him; now we only know him as 'Pyrus.' The only prior history of Pyrus that is certain is the fact that he was once a human being.

"His species and all other attributes are a mystery to even Galactic officials. They never kept records of anyone they experimented on, just in case the police ever found their hidden laboratory. After the fire was quelled by alert guards, the surviving experiments and Pokémon were moved to a warehouse about a quarter-mile north of here. In the chaos of the moving day, Pyrus fought his way past the guards and up the stairwell.

"Upon weaving his way to the ground floor, he outfoxed the greatest mind of the Galactic force: Cyrus. Disguising himself as a grunt, he was ordered by Cyrus to leave for the day and get some rest, as 'tomorrow our plan will swing into full force.' He willfully obeyed, and upon his exit of the Galactic hideout, no one ever saw him again... and this basement has since been all but abandoned."

"Wait," Dylan said, a little confused. "How did he escape without someone noticing him being an experiment?"

"No one is completely sure," Shade explained. "It's said that either his disguise was simply incredible, or that Cyrus slipped up really badly. I'm not going to try and doubt Cyrus, so I'll go with the disguise theory. And, technically, the correct term for his experiment type is _Pokémorph_."

"What's a Pokémorph?"

"A Pokémorph is a being that has the DNA of both a human and Pokémon source. The helices combine in a very complicated fashion, and the outward appearance reflects this unusual union by displaying the traits of both DNA donors. The most complicated one I've heard of involved two Pokémon donors and a single human. This is actually a fairly common method of punishment for non-compliant Galactic employees. In fact, it's estimated that as many as twenty-three percent of the experiments in the warehouse are former Galactic grunts."

"And are we in this warehouse now, or are the prisoners?"

"No, we're in the basement of the official headquarters building, like I said before. Apparently, you and I are a special case to be mocked and ridiculed by all the employees that pass us by. The warehouse was actually recently refurbished, about a month ago, and now houses most of the biological assets of the organization. The prisoners are now said to inhabit a storeroom in Veilstone City, the same city where Cyrus was unceremoniously killed by a wild Ampharos. That's a long, sordid story that I don't even _feel_ like going into right now.

Dylan whistled in awe at all of the information he had just taken in. "So, we're in a former experimental facility?" he asked.

"Yep," came the answer. "Well, yes and no. Some experiments took place here, but this place mostly housed the _finished products_of the experiments, not their actual _performances._"

"That means that I might be exposed to mutated DNA strands at this very moment?"

"Yes," Shade responded with a conceding sigh. "I've never known Team Galactic to wash any of their holding cells, cages, or other equipment in this lower floor. For all we know, your very chemistry might be changing as we speak."

Dylan seemed slightly unnerved at this and settled uneasily into a sitting position, wondering just how much of Shade's story he could trust...


	2. Vial Intentions

**Chapter Two: Vial Intentions**

The second floor of the H.Q. building was a more biological sort of place, at least in a sense, than the basement was. Beakers of fluids were spread out over a long table, ranging in all colors from a strong red-orange, to a royal purple, and even a light cerulean. A strong, burning stench filled the area, as this was the room where Pokémon and human extracts were taken and boiled to their simplest, liquid form. In this form, the DNA was highly concentrated, and could be used for experiments, or as simply a reference material for future use.

This was the main laboratory, and it housed both established scientists and mid-level grunts who displayed an aptitude for the sciences. Most of the grunts filled up jobs requiring them to take the substances and put them in vials. Several of the grunts up for promotion packaged the sealed vials within cardboard boxes for shipments to the warehouse, a dangerous job that left no room for error. If the vials shattered in the boxes, the fluids would leech through the cardboard and onto the floor, posing not only risks of workplace accidents, but also unwanted contamination.

A blond woman, appearing to be in her late teens or her early twenties, sat at a station with empty vials. She had locks of hair that looked like inverted wheat growing out of her head, draped down as finely as an upper-class curtain hanging over her face. She idly fiddled with a small, glass-coated vial of fluid, and sighed sadly as she stared at the orange substance inside. She then sealed the vial with a small piece of cork, making it airtight and safe for future handling. A frown began to form on her face as she looked at her dark-skinned coworker, no more than eighteen in appearance, who was sitting about five feet to her right, packaging finished vials.

"Chell, I've finished another batch of DNA samples," the blond woman stated with a groan, placing the vial into a flat-bottomed cardboard divider filled with identical, sealed vials. The glass nestled unevenly inside, as if she didn't care how it looked. She pushed the divider toward her coworker impatiently.

"What do you want, Kyra, a medal?" Chell replied abrasively as she turned toward the blond woman, catching the divider as it slid, and straightening the contents as she carefully placed it on top of another divider inside the topmost box. "We've got more vials to fill so we can send them off to the warehouse. Get back to work." She sealed the box, which was now filled to the top, and labeled it 'Fire Types.' Her handwriting was very neat, signifying that she took her work more seriously than her compatriot. Her short, walnut-colored hair shuffled as she adjusted her rose-tinted glasses, worn strictly as a fashion accessory. Her hazel eyes cast a reproachful stare beneath the spectacles, seeming to pierce the soul. After Chell had made her point, she turned back toward the nearest empty box, putting it on the table in front of her.

Kyra sighed softly at the unkind response she had received, and shook her head. "Chell, don't be like that," she said sadly, with a blink of her jade-colored eyes. "I'm not in the mood for this today." Chell and Kyra normally got along somewhat well, but things weren't really _too_happy and energetic between the two of them. They had been working together for about four months, and Kyra had been Chell's mentor, of sorts, while the teen had gotten used to the workplace. However, Kyra showed a little resentment toward Chell, who had surprisingly passed her in the corporate ladder.

Chell surpassed all expectations with her cool, level-headed attitude. She showed high aptitudes for biology, and proved her battling skills with a third place finish in the Sinnoh Pokémon League ten months before. After the League finished its championship match, Chell retired, much to the shock of her fellow competitors, to return back to her home in Floaroma Town. She spent six months living peaceably with her Pokémon, and all seemed decent.

Then, one day in late February. Kyra dropped by Floaroma on an errand to pick up Gracidea flowers for an experiment. She noticed Chell feeding her Arcanine some unusual-looking food. After she asked Chell what she was doing, Chell explained that she made food based on the personalities, type, and biological aspects of each Pokémon she encountered. Kyra was impressed, and recommended to her that she stop by the H.Q. building north of Jubilife, tucked away in a forested nook next to the Ravaged Path.

A day later, Chell showed up with a smile on her face and hope filling her heart. She was hired after about a ten minute interview with the president of Team Galactic, who immediately saw promise in the seventeen-year-old. She was accepted into an entry-level position in the laboratory, and rapidly worked her way up, racking up promotions like she had formerly collected wins as a trainer. Within three months, she had passed Kyra on the ladder, despite being four years younger. She was a prim and proper employee, the type anyone would want on their workforce. However, she had a dark side to her, and she often assisted in experimental injections, relishing every minute of it.

Remembering these facts, Kyra seemed a little miffed as she filled another vial with the orange liquid. She groaned as she lamented the fact that even after nearly two years of employment, she had never really been used to her fullest potential. She knew exactly why, as she began to recall her clumsiness and slightly sub-par intelligence.

"Something up?" Chell queried, genuinely concerned.

"Oh, for Pete's sake," Kyra responded abrasively, shaking the very nerves of her coworker's foundation. "Chell, can't I get a thought in my head without you thinking something's going on?" She threw up her hands in exasperation, the orange polish glistening on her fingernails.

Chell stood up and sighed, her four-nine body seeming like nothing compared to Kyra's five-three frame. "I don't believe you, Kyra," the brunette replied firmly, yet with a touch of compassion. "Tell me what's _really_ happening."

"I told you, nothing's wrong!" Kyra flung her hand forward as she yelled, and in her haste, she tossed the vial at Chell. The glass hit her coworker in the face and broke into thousands upon thousands of miniature shards. Chell's face ended up covered in her own crimson blood, along with the orange DNA fluid. Fortunately, Chell's glasses blocked most of the shards that headed toward her eyes. Although they were now pretty much shot, they ended up saving her eyes, and most importantly, her vision. The brunette threw her glasses to the ground in disgust, growling in ire.

"Shit!" Chell yelped as she stomped toward Kyra, her arms also covered in the liquid's splash. "I ought to kick your ass, you no good-"

"Oh gods..." Kyra interrupted as she looked at Chell, on the verge of tears. Kyra looked down and noticed that several hundred shards had flown off in her direction, and now lay at the base of her blue boots. Just above her socks, several shards had cut into her skin, leaving a red, rash-like mark on her leg. Kyra dusted off the bottom of her black lab dress and examined her wound carefully.

The sound of someone clearing their throat caught Kyra by surprise. She looked up to find an imposing man staring at Chell with a sneer on his cold, unforgiving face.

The boss of Team Galactic didn't go by any name. Most of the workers just called him 'Boss,' or, at least, the smart ones did. His six-ten stature towered over every other Galactic member. His black tuxedo was a sign of his power, as he was the only one allowed to wear a suit in the facility. Boss had a heavy-set build that brought fright to the workers' faces as they had to look up to even see what emotions he was possibly trying to feel. Boss tapped his right foot, the laces on his leather shoe bouncing slightly with each tap. "Chell Davies, did I just hear you swear at Miss Jones?" he snarled with rage. "Look at me as I'm- oh, Lord Arceus above!" He cried out as Chell turned around, revealing to him her blood-soaked face. "_What happened here!_" Boss growled, his teeth gnashing together. "Tell me, _now_."

"It's not my fault, Sir," Chell snapped as she stared daggers at Kyra. "This unacceptable excuse for a human being just tossed a filled vial at me for no reason!"

Boss wheeled around and got right into Kyra's face. "Miss Jones!" the man boomed angrily. "What the _hell_ was going through your mind!"

Kyra backed away uneasily, her lips quivering nervously. "It... it was an accident, Sir," Kyra admitted. "My arms were going forward and the vial just... slipped out..."

Boss bought the explanation, but he was absolutely furious nonetheless. "Thanks to your little stunt, Miss Davies is now infected with Pokémon DNA! You've just endangered her greatly, and you should be lucky I'm feeling kind today. Otherwise, I'd kill you on the spot!"

His tone calmed down as he looked back toward Chell. "Miss Davies, since the shards cutting you were so small, we can't really do anything about removing them. I'd at least suggest going up to the nurse's station to get your face cleaned up, and let her treat your cuts. Unfortunately, as far as your infection is concerned, our only vial of antidote is in the basement, along with Dylan and Shade."

"Why's Dylan down there?" Kyra questioned with a raised brow.

"Considering you performed a double injection on him, he's a potential candidate to go completely feral," Boss reminded her with an annoyed groan. "Either that, or he'll be another unsuccessful taurform attempt."

"Taurform?" Chell chimed in, blinking hesitantly. She looked down at her arms, which had been spared from most of the splash, but still had small splotches of orange on them. "I thought we stopped trying to make those."

"We did," Boss conceded. "After over two hundred failures, all resulting in the experiment's death, we scrapped Project Taurform back in March. I never thought we'd be talking about _that_ debacle in the middle of June... but we have to now, thanks to Miss Jones bungling up that injection."

"Today's the fourteenth," Chell observed. "I guess if I had to estimate, since Kyra injected Dylan on the third, by now he'll either be dead, or have morphed." Chell sighed sadly as she walked to her left about twenty feet and hit the 'up' button on the elevator. She was heading to the fourth floor to get treated for her injuries at the company nurse's station. The elevator car arrived, and Chell stepped on, pushed the '4' button, and watched the door close in front of her. As the noise of Boss screaming at Kyra was slowly drowned out by the shutting door, Chell thanked her lucky stars that she could still see after the sordid incident with the vial...


	3. Beakon of Hope

**Chapter Three: Beak-on of Hope**

As Dylan sat in pensive thought, he found his eyes wandering to the right, gazing at a small, pigeon-like bird. Dylan immediately recalled that this creature was called a 'Pidgey.' The bird had a small, vermilion beak, and Dylan noted that this beak shade was unusual for the species, which normally had a pinkish or purplish mouth. Its feet were the same hue of red, and each foot housed a trio of sharp, opal-tinted talons on the front, with a single extra talon on the back for a more favorable hold on tree branches and the like. The wings, underside, brows, and belly were all a creamy beige color, with the rest of the body holding a sienna tinge to it. Its sand-colored eyes blinked slowly at the human as it carefully hopped over.

"Dylan, what are you looking at over there?" Shade questioned, a leery undertone pervading throughout the query.

"It's just a Pidgey," Dylan answered with a passing wave of his hand. "Mm, she's a beautiful one at that. She's got this amazing cinnabar beak, and her talons look as sharp as steak knives. I'm surprised that she isn't covered in contest ribbons, as pretty as this little birdie is."

The Pidgey cooed lovingly at Dylan's vehement praise. "Thank you," she trilled with a longing sigh, "but my beak is actually _vermilion_, not cinnabar."

Dylan furrowed his brow at the bird's response. "As far as I recall, vermilion and cinnabar are both pretty much the same shade," he explained with a hint of confusion. "In fact, vermilion used to be obtained directly _from_ cinnabar, if I recall accurately. Therefore, by all technicalities, either way should be correct."

The pigeon ruffled her feathers and nodded. "Well played; that's indeed correct,' she sang with a happy blink of her eyes. "Wait, why aren't you freaking out?"

"Why should I be?" The teen seemed even more confused now. He didn't really understand what he was supposed to be freaking out about, if anything at all.

"I'm a talking Pidgey!" the bird crowed with a flap of her wings. "Doesn't that, you know, _frighten_ you!"

"Not really," Dylan admitted. "I mean, yeah, back when I first met a talking Pokémon, it was pretty freaky. But ever since then, I've essentially come to _expect_ it whenever I run across a Pokémon anywhere I go. See, I believe that almost _any_ Pokémon possesses the ability to speak the human language. It all boils down to two things. First, if the creature doesn't learn it at some point, it won't happen. Additionally, even if the Pokémon _does_ learn our language, not many of them will _want_ to use it around humans. Remember, humans are fickle and easily amused."

"_You're_ a human," Pidgey cawed with a chuckle.

"That's not the point," Dylan continued. "I never was much of a trainer, so I simply gathered the Pokémon that appeared to resonate the most with my emotions. Unfortunately, because of our nature, many other humans don't take the time to appreciate the beauty of the earth, and all the creatures that inhabit it. It's a shame that we don't, because there's so much that we've still got to learn. Certainly, the fact we still don't know all the secrets of the Pokémon universe attests to that."

"Arceus _above_; you sound like a clone of the professor," the pigeon jested.

Dylan chortled uneasily, nodding sadly. "Touché, my avian friend. You have to admit though... what I said holds true."

"Doesn't make you sound any less like a geek," the bird laughed. "And call me Pidge, love; you're being _way_ too formal with me."

"Fine, but don't call me '_love_' again. Deal?"

"All right, then. What _should_ I call you?" Pidge cooed happily, giving Dylan as close to a smile as her beak would allow.

"Dylan will be just fine," the redhead replied, returning Pidge's 'smile.'

"Okay, then Dylan it is." The bird preened her chest feathers, then turned back to Dylan and cawed, "You said you met a talking Pokémon before. When was that?"

Dylan pondered for a minute or so, and finally answered, "It was when I was eleven. For my birthday that year, Dad gave me a Cyndaquil, and a set of three Poké Balls. He explained that each time I attempted to capture a Pokémon, I had to throw one of the capsules at the Pokémon I wanted to catch. If it was successful, it officially belonged to me... at least, those were _his_ words. I told him I didn't feel right calling myself a Pokémon's _owner_, so much. I said that if I caught a Pokémon, it was a sign that I was the correct person for it to travel with."

"Okay, hold up, Dylan," Pidge interrupted, putting her left wing to her beak. "Don't you get all spiritual with me here. Okay, fire hair?"

"_Anyway_," Dylan continues, ignoring Pidge's intrusion, "If it was unsuccessful, the Poké Ball would shatter into invisible shards, never to be seen again. Therefore, Dad instructed me to use them carefully, but assured me that I could purchase them at a Poké Mart if I ran out. After his final lesson, he bid me goodbye, and I began my way with my Cyndaquil, who seemed like a perfect partner for my journey.

"She was a bright little fireball, a mouse-like Pokémon with a long snout and a happy grin on her face. She had navy blue fur, with a cream-colored underside. Each of her back paws held a single, ivory claw, with her front paws having no toes at all. They looked like little cream puffs, and wiggled lovingly as I held her for the first time. Her small body bristled with energy, and the top of her back flared up with light flames, warming the Pokémon up even more as I hugged her passionately. I named her Almette, after my mother, who was killed in a car accident a week before my ninth birthday. That's enough ruminating over her, though, so I'll get back to the story.

"As the sun began to set that evening, I made my way to the entrance of Route 201, and a small cat approached me on his hind legs. He was the color of light sand, with darker, bay-colored 'socks' on the hind paws. A tail flowed behind him, the bay tip curled into a small, lollipop-like spiral. His ears were a jet black, and he had amber eyes, flanking just beneath a golden coin emblazoned into his forehead. I didn't realize that he was called a 'Meowth' until I saw the coin charm. I looked at him a little strangely, as I had studied in school that Meowth usually walked on all fours. He called me a 'twerp,' for some odd reason, and stated that he didn't like my staring.

"At once, I was fascinated with the reality of a Pokémon being able to talk, and a bit unnerved at the same time. Immediately, I asked him how he knew how to speak. He replied that he learned a long time ago, along with learning bipedal movement, to impress a female Meowth that he was in love with. His expression saddened as he finished by saying she thought he was a freak after all that work he did.

"Then, he went on and told me a long-winded story about two idiots named Jessie and James, who I assume he had traveled with in his younger years. I recall that he indeed looked a little old, as his fur wasn't quite as vibrant, and his eyes seemed a little droopy. He continued to tell me that his 'moron companions' constantly got him in trouble, and kept causing the three of them to be blasted toward the stratosphere in heavy explosions. He yapped about wasting 'eight of his nine lives' with them. Finally, he explained how he finally ditched the 'dimwitted duo' in Pastoria City by hiding in the Safari Zone.

"After about two more hours of berating Jessie and James, or what seemed like that much time, he finally shut up and lay tiredly at my side. I was perplexed, to say the least. I stayed with him and put Almette down, so she could frolic at my side. I then petted Meowth for a few minutes, and smiled warmly as I listened to his sleepy purrs. He seemed glad that I had listened to his tales, and I watched the sun set beneath the trees, gazing in awe at its rainbow of colors.

"After the sun left our vision, Meowth growled cutely, and asked if I had ever owned a Pokémon. I told him that I had no intentions of being an 'owner,' so much as a 'friend,' of Pokémon, and he meowed approvingly. He admitted that Jessie and James were at least good for that, as they had never forced him into a Poké Ball while he worked with them. He then confessed that he longed to know what it was like to just be friends with a human, in a stress-free environment, and wondered if I would take him along on my journey.

"At first, I declined his offer, but then I realized that this was my chance to listen to a Pokémon tell his story in his own words, in a way I could understand. I then allowed the cat to travel with me, much to his delight. We traveled for about three years together, and I kept a daily journal of our events, told from each of our perspectives. Things were wonderful, even though Meowth seemed to get a little more weary with each passing day."

"A week after my fourteenth birthday, Meowth passed away due to his old age. I buried him back in Twinleaf Town, next to my old swing set in the backyard. I left him the journal, so that he would be able to take it with him to the afterlife, and recall his experiences with the souls of those whom he cared about. Who knows? He might have met that Meowth from his kitten years up there." As he finished his tale, Dylan looked up at the ceiling of the cage. He began to wonder if he was _ever_ going to get out of the H.Q. again, and a tear glinted against the corner of his right eye.

Noticing the tear, Pidge sighed adoringly and hopped closer to the bars of Dylan's cage. "That's a beautiful tale, Dylan," she crowed with a longing sigh. "You must have a wonderful soul inside you. Will you pet me? I want to feel the warmth exude from you."

Dylan's brow raised curiously, but he nodded with a gentle grin. "Well, you put it pretty strangely, but of course I can pet you, Pidge." Dylan reached his right hand out as he spoke, rubbing the Pidgey's neck softly. The bird trilled happily, rubbing her beak into Dylan's ring finger.. Some of the cinnabar hues leaked like pigments from her beak, and soaked into the teen's hand. He didn't notice it as he yawned, his petting strokes growing slower until he stopped completely.

Dylan eventually slumped with his back against the bars and looked at Pidge with a satisfied expression. He then fell to the left, and curled up into a ball on the floor, much in the manner of a Meowth. His breathing slowed and he began to go back to sleep. Pounding footsteps echoed through the barren walls of the basement, signifying the usual hustle and bustle of the workplace above...


End file.
